Lucky Number Seven
by Noir Lime Canuto
Summary: "Some people wonder if life is real. I'm not one of those people. I'm not a boy of such inescapable lack of reason. But sometimes I question it." Blaise's thoughts on various subjects, presented in vignettes.
1. Blaise The Boy

_Disclaimer: __All characters belong to J.K. Rowling. No copyright infringement is intended._

** Blaise The Boy**

I don't have a very good name.

_Blaise. _

It can be a boy's or a girl's name. Mine's a girl's name, because my mum picked it out when she thought I was a girl. A seer told her I'd be a girl, and she believed the seer. Since Blaise was already picked out, she just kept it. She already has a lot of things picked out for me. She still believes in seers.

_Zabini._

Because it begins with a Z, I'm always last. First is a wizard, second is a witch, third's a dead elf on the Quidditch Pitch. I think I'd rather be a live elf, at least.

_Draco._

_ Malfoy. _

He's proud of his name. I've met him a few times, and I think half his vocabulary is just how own name. It's an average sort of name, hardly something worth repeating. M is in the middle of the alphabet. D is more towards the front, but only A and B are really thought of as the front, anyway. Draco and Malfoy have the same amount of syllables, so you don't think to emphasize either one off the cuff.

_ Pansy._

_ Parkinson._

Rather a dull name, but a fitting one all the same, seeing as Pansy is rather dull. A flower, and flowers are supposed to be elegant and delicate and beautiful. But not pansies. Pansies are boring, common flowers. Pretty enough, if they're in the right setting. But nothing next to a rose. Sort of a round, homely sort of a flower. But still a flower. Parkinson is rather plain, too. Sounds a bit like a disease, though.

_ Harry._

_ Potter._

I'll admit I've never met him. The thing is, that's the problem with his name. No one knows where he's gone—he isn't missing, but you hardly see much of a wizard before he's eleven. Since I'm only ten, I've really only met people my mother has connections to. Since he doesn't have a mother, it's not surprising no one's met him yet. Thing is, though, even though you haven't met him, and no one else has, you've heard of him. Heard his name. Again and again and again. When you say a name enough, it's not a name anymore. It's a thing. An object. An idea. Harry Potter will never be a name.

Names.

They'd be more accurate if you got them after being around for a while. Famous wizards have additions to their names, like _Ignos the Sarcastic_, or_ Harold the Sure_. Those names are useful, they let you know about people right away. The only thing people think about me right away from my name is that I'm a girl.

I think if I got to add onto my name without really changing it, a proper change would be _Blaise the Boy_.

**~x~**

_** Author's Note:**__ Thank you so much for reading, I do hope you enjoyed it. I would really appreciate it if you took the time to review, but whatever's your fancy. Thanks in any case-Have a nice day!_

_** 3/18/11:**__ I've edited this, because I think the story later goes in a slightly different direction. Same ideas, pretty much, just edited to fit better. I took out Ginny's name and put in Harry's, as someone suggested before in a review (I can't recall who, but know it wasn't my idea to put it in, it was certainly their's)._


	2. Above The Stove

_**Disclaimer: **__Harry Potter is the property__ J.K. Rowling. No copyright infringement is intended._

**Above The Stove**

I remember reading this cookbook about how muggles used to over-spice their rotten meat because they didn't have spells or machines to preserve them. Now, of course, muggles use feridginators to keep their meat fresh, but apparently they poured pepper on them before.

I also remember how much I laughed after reading it, because I, a wizard, used to do sort of the same thing. Except, you see, not with spoiled meat, with barely-cooked meat. My mother's always said that you should never let a house elf near your food and so when I was younger, she used to cook for me. Except, you see, she's a terrible cook, and she always undercooked the meat—the inside was always cold. I'd get in trouble if I didn't eat the stuff, so I used to dump all the spices I could find on my chicken and steak to make it more bearable.

Now, when I'm at home, I do all the cooking. I've read countless cooking books, muggle and magical alike, and I cook everything as close as I can to perfect. At first, when I'd make really fancy meals, my mum would smile and congratulate me and say how proud she was (and how it worked out after all even though I was a boy), but after a while she just said thank-you, and then a bit after than she just ate without a word to me. But I've never minded, I understand. It was the same with me. At first the spices sort of hurt my mouth, and made my throat itchy. Then they just had a sort of tangy flavour. Now I can barely taste them at all, and I over-spice everything. In the back of my mind, I still know I'm eating loads of spice, just like how she knows, in the back of her mind, that she's proud of my cooking.

There was a time, before I cooked and before my mum cooked, when I was really little, that the house-elves cooked our meals. I don't really remember that time at all, except I'm not about to forget it either. Arontius was my mum's second husband, and he was poisoned. Two days after he was poisoned, he died in St. Mongo's. It was a real shame, because it was right after a big photo-shoot my mum had finished, so she got some bad press, and all her interviews were filled with depressing questions. I don't really remember Arontius at all, except I can't forget him either, because his picture is hanging above the stove.


	3. My Mother's Friend

_** Disclaimer: **__Harry Potter is the property_ _J.K. Rowling. No copyright infringement is intended._

**My Mother's Friend**

I remember when my mum wanted me to meet her friend. I didn't, for a second, believe that he was a friend.

His face had lines that made it look like he was frowning even when his features were completely relaxed. My mother had no lines on her face. His hair was thin and slimy, pressed back across his head. My mother's hair spilled across her shoulders freely in thick, healthy curls. His hair was faded in some parts and dark in others, like a drawing someone had spilled water on and left to dry. My mother's hair was all the deepest, richest black. When he looked at me, he saw an inconvenience.

Pleased to meet you, sir, I said. Always a pleasure to meet one of my mothers friends.

What a charming lad, he cooed.

Isn't he precious? she agreed.

I held my hand out for him to shake.

He put his hand out, too, and patted my head. His other hand was clasped around my mother's.

I let my hand drop to my side. He pretended he didn't notice. He pulled his hand away and hid it in his pocket.

Where will he be attending school?

Beauxbatons, though that's a ways off, isn't it?

Yes, yes, still plenty of time to get ahead. Do you read much, boy?

No, I told him. I liked reading.

Do you like animals? He tried again.

Not particularly, I told him.

That's not true, my mother says. She tries to remember.

Didn't you say the boy had an owl?

He ran away, I told him.

Flew, he corrects me.

No, he ran.

My mother laughs, like I was joking, and watches as I look at him and he looks at me.

Would you like some tea? She's asking her friend.

Yes, that would be fabulous. What was your house elf's name, again? Spunky?

It's Hydrelius, I tell him.

That's an odd name for a house elf.

It's a family name. I smile.

My favorite house elf's name is Nampy, she's very nice. Do you like house elves?

Only some of them, I say. He frowns.

I'll be right back, my mother mumbles as she makes her way towards the kitchen. She steps inside.

Which ones are your favorite? He asks.

The kind with long names.

And why is that, son?

I'm not your son.

Excuse me?

I'm not your son. You're not my father. Don't you touch my mother. I'll know.

His hand went to my head again. This time it wasn't gentle. His other hand clasped his wand. Listen to me, boy, he says, I could have you killed in an instant. Dead. Just like that. The ministry would never know. It would be an accident, a terrible accident. Dead. Just like that. Capiche?

Mother drops the tea tray. What was that? She asks. She knows what he said.

Just talking about the power of purebloods, dear.

Oh, my, I've spilled the tea. I'm so sorry.

Let me help you with that, I say. I lift it up for her.

I think your son would be better off at Durmstrang's, he says.

Yes, I agree, I hear they like poison there. I wave good-bye to my mother's friend.


	4. All The Same

_** Disclaimer: **__Harry Potter is the property_ _J.K. Rowling. No copyright infringement is intended._

**All The Same**

People like to think about the parallels and striking differences between weddings and funerals.

Weddings are white, funerals are black. Weddings mean joyful tears, funerals mean sorrowful tears. Those are the obvious ones. The first ones you should think of. I don't really think of it as black versus white, though, because neither ceremony is ever that pure, ever that straightforward.

Tomorrow she's wearing white again. As she walks down the aisle, they'll be crying, clapping, taking photographs and thinking they'll remember this moment forever. And they do. They remember all of the weddings forever. They remember them right then. They remember the white peacocks at her first wedding, though I don't, with their golden eyes and blue ribbons. They remember all the other weddings so far. They wonder if this will really be the last. If they'll really love each other forever and ever. But as she walks down the aisle, she seems so sure. So sure that this is the last time. So hopeful. So ignorant. Is she lying to everyone else, or only to her self? Is she even lying? Maybe it will be the last time tomorrow. She's already gotten married more than most people have. She'll be on her fourth wedding. Most people get married once. Some people get married twice. But nobody get's married five times, they say. Nobody get's married five times, she thinks. But some people get married five times.

Tomorrow she'll walk down the aisle to the sound of enchanted violins. I remembered the spell from the last funeral I went to. He was my mum's third husband. I didn't much like him, and he didn't much like me, but I didn't see him much because this year I was at school. Hogwarts, not Durmstrang's. He had been a musician. Part of a famous band. Everyone was upset when he died. He was really rich. I had been in charge of the music, since his bandmates were his closest friends, and they couldn't bear the thought, or something. I didn't tell my mum I'd used the same spell. That would be too painfully ironic for her. It would put a bad taste in her mouth tomorrow as she walks down the aisle again.

It seems like yesterday when we lay Gilderbass to rest. It's been at least two months. But it feels like yesterday. Everything between now and then has happened to fast, but at the time I thought I'd be stuck at the funeral forever. It was like all funerals. As they lay the coffin in the ground people were crying, throwing flowers, making speeches and thinking they'll remember this wizard forever. And they do. They remember everyone forever. They remember them right then. They remember the smiles, the handshakes, the fighting, the fists, the moments they thought would never end and the ones they were glad that had. They remember all the other deaths so far. They think this will be the last. They think that they've lost so much already, they'll die too. They think they can't lose any more. And once they exit that funeral, they have closure. They think they've come to an understanding with the powers that be. Take no one else, and I'll forgive you for taking him. But there's always another funeral. There's always another wedding. And they're all the same.


	5. Touch The Snow

_** Disclaimer: **__Harry Potter is the property_ _J.K. Rowling. No copyright infringement is intended._

**Touch The Snow**

Snow was a treacherous thing. People presented it as so pure, so clean. A symbol of all things good and soft. And yet it was so weak.

Of course, as it just began to litter the ground, it made the world sparkle. When it blanketed the earth, it acted as an equalizer, turning the world to white. But it gave way so easily. It wasn't its own. It belonged o whoever came and held it in their hands. And it never fought, it never fell from those cupped hands. It only melted, and through melting it lost all of its endearing qualities and became commonplace again.

When you took it in your hands, you could do what you wanted with it. It molded to fit your fingers and, unless it melted, it would retain that shape long after you were gone. But it was not constant, even in that sense. Like its beauty, it was fleeting. The second a foot pressed against it, it lost its softness and its purity. Grooves and shaped indented there stole your attention from the snow. It was no longer a question of where the snow came from, but where the footprint lead.

What good was something so pure and bright if it gave no purity or brightness to anything else? If it selfishly kept it all to itself, then carelessly allowed it to be destroyed by curious hands? It was good to view, perhaps, but never nice to touch. To touch it was to destroy it, and to be destroyed by it.

It appeared so slight and delicate, yet when you pressed it to your hand, you were overcome by startling, cold, unbearable pain.

And yet people endured this pain. They touched the snow, time and again, fully aware that the snow would lose its blanket-like shape. Fully aware that it would burn their skin. But they chose to touch the snow.


	6. Lack of Trying

_ Disclaimer:____Harry Potter is the property_ _J.K. Rowling. No copyright infringement is intended._

** Lack of Trying**

Entering school, now, I've already been told several times by adults that I can do anything I set my mind to. What a ludicrous proposition. People only like to believe that sort of thing because they want life to be fair.

They want the amount of work you put into something to equate to what you get out of it, so that hard-workers can prosper and slackers cans suffer. Because that would be fair. But it isn't true. What's fair is generally either untrue, or trivial. Seeing as life is both real and significant, it simply isn't fair.

But not everyone can handle that, so they tell themselves those pleasant little lies. They think of neat little mantras to chant to themselves as they work endlessly towards goals they may never achieve. _If at first you don't succeed... Quitters never win... Shoot for the moon..._

But sometimes you're just awful at something, and every single time you try you're destined to fail. And sometimes you give up, and it's a good thing. And sometimes when you shoot for the moon, you fall flat on your face. Sometimes ends up being most of the time for some people, and it's not because they don't try, it's because life isn't a children's rhyme thought up to get you to work hard. Life's a gamble. Telling yourself other wise will only help you to lose.

Anyone who listens to adults deserves the lies they hear, though. Anyone alive can't tell you about life objectively, so unless you're able to separate facts from bias rambling, you shouldn't bother listening.

That's why I talk to ghosts. Talk to them constantly. And I write it all down.

The worst part is how shocked they always seem that I'm interested. It surprises them that someone wants to hear their stories, their opinions. Everyone should. Time is a circular story, and any paths taken before lead round the same way.

Professor Binns is my favorite. He's very cut and dry. Like a well-researched book, except all firsthand. They say he's so boring that he didn't even notice when he died, and that's why he's still around. He noticed. He has a passion for history, and wanted to be able to educate the world forever. Instead he puts them to sleep.

Of all the ghosts I've talked to, most of them want to either be alive, or dead. In-between means the worst of both, they say. None of the joy of life, none of the peace of death. A comfortable sort of torture for eternity.

There's one ghost I know who wants very badly to be dead. She tries every day to kill herself in new ways, but of course they never work. She was killed, originally at her own hand. She wants more than anything to be dead, but she isn't, and that's not for a lack of trying.


	7. That They Don't

**That They Don't**

_Disclaimer:Harry Potter is the property J.K. Rowling. No copyright infringement is intended._

Today in Defense Against the Dark Arts we read about defensive spells. We don't need to be taught how to defend ourselves. We already know. Ways we build up throughout our lives, each a little different from the next. Only a little.

Pansy Parkinson has an extremely effective method. She hurts you before you can hurt her. Spreading nasty rumors, giving layered compliments. Pulling you in and then pushing you back. If you get close to her, she'll push you away. She'll only accept you if she's sure you won't accept her. She never hurts me because she knows I won't let her.

Draco Malfoy is similar, but not the same. There's no pulling involved. Too afraid to be hurt, he pushes from the start. Like an animal, he makes himself appear bigger so you won't approach. Pounces on the small. He never hurts me because he knows I'm too large to be his prey, but will never seek to be his companion.

Daphne Greengrass doesn't push anyone away. She lets everyone hurt her, because she wants anyone to heal her. She'll let you in and never force you out. She'll never let me in because she knows I won't let her.

The world is full of people pushing and pulling. Some more than others. People collide, people break apart. Some people naturally draw people in, some naturally push people out.

I don't bother pushing or pulling the strings that attach me to the rest of us. I just am. I exist. I don't disturb the space around me. I don't hurt anyone, and no one hurts me.

Recently, I've wondered if perhaps every defense is a little flawed, though.

Pansy hurts herself by hurting other people. She doesn't let herself get close to anyone who cares.

Draco hurts himself because he only lets other people hurt him. He makes them hate him, draws it out of them.

Daphne hurts herself when she lets people in. She doesn't stop them, she thinks it's helping.

Recently, I've wondered if perhaps even my defense is a little flawed.

But it's not my defense that's flawed, it's the execution. Sometimes, it's hard to stay in place. I feel the tug and I let myself get drawn in.

He's my potions partner, so standing still is difficult. We like the same table in the library, so it's hard to avoid him. We lend each other notes in History of Magic, which makes ignoring him difficult. We start eating breakfast together. Then lunch.

Eventually I realize that it's already gone too far. When I though I'd been standing still, I'd been getting pulled in just like anyone else. Just like any other idiot, waiting to get hurt. Hurting themselves.

But what can I do?

Draco or Pansy would shove him away. Hurt him.

But I can't hurt him. I could never hurt him.

Daphne would let him. Let him hurt her.

But I can't let him hurt me. I don't want to be hurt.

But maybe I do.

Maybe he's worth being hurt.

Recently, I've wondered if any defense ever works.

Because maybe none of us really want them to work. Maybe we're all hoping, a little bit, that they don't.


	8. Living Any More

** Living Any More**

_ Disclaimer: Harry Potter is the property J.K. Rowling. No copyright infringement is intended._

Some people wonder if life is real. I'm not one of those people.

I'm not a boy of such inescapable lack of reason.

But sometimes I question it.

Sometimes I feel like I'm not real. Or like I'm the only real thing. But not me, my mind, my head, my emotions.

I walk around, sit down, stand up. But none of it feels like it's happening to me.

Sometimes, when you're reading, you begin to think of something else, and soon you realize that although you hear the words in your head, you forget them the second after. You can't remember anything you red on the last page.

It's like that.

Sometimes I feel like that.

I do everything, but I forget it after.

Nothing I do leaves anything behind.

I don't feel it when I'm done.

Sometimes, when you're running, and your legs begin to disagree with your willingness to run, and the ground beneath you starts to hold on to you more when your feet press against it, you start to think. You think about anything you can. You shoot for large ideas. You run, and you think. And then, you're just thinking, even though you're running, too. There's just your thoughts.

It's like that.

Sometimes I feel like that.

I'm thinking, and living.

Then, I'm just thinking.

I'm not living any more.


	9. Eyes Have Silver

**Eyes Have Silver**

_Disclaimer: Harry Potter is the property J.K. Rowling. No copyright infringement is intended._

Filigree, he said.

What's filigree, I asked.

Intricate metal work, I guess.

You guess?

Yeah, Blaise. Permit me to apologize for my inexperience with filigree. It's more of a muggle thing. Or maybe a French thing.

I'm sorry, weren't you French?

No, I'm not.

What's that? You're Nott?

The slight blow to the head I receive for my poor joke is deserved. The bolt it sends through me, that one pitiful moment of physical contact, I didn't come close to deserving.

I never asked for this. For him. I don't ask for a lot of things, I do not get a lot of things. One might conclude that I don't get a lot because I don't ask for it, however I've simply given up asking. Given up to the extent that I cannot remember what it's like to ask, to hope.

But somehow, even without asking, I've got my answer.

You already knew damned well what filigree was, didn't you, Blaise?

Yeah, I did.

How? Did you see them in France?

No. It's just that your eyes have silver.


	10. Brave For You

"Blaise, you're not like the others."

"I know."

"Would you care to join me at Hogsmeade?"

I don't know how Astoria got to caring about me. These sorts of things, you're not supposed to notice. I noticed the entire time. The way she was friendly to me. Included me in conversation like I was anyone else. Ignored that I ignored her, ignored everyone.

I wanted to grab her by the shoulders, to scream in her face.

No, no, no, no, no.

At the same time, I wanted to kiss her.

I wanted to want to kiss her.

But I didn't kiss her. I didn't want to. I didn't kiss her.

I didn't grab her shoulders. I explained.

"Oh."

Oh, she said. I understand, she meant. You hurt me so bad, she meant.

"We could go as friends?"

It was pathetic. She would settle for being friends. Pathetic.

"Sure, that sounds fine. Can Nott come?"

"You mean Theodore?"

I meant Theodore. I don't want to share his name with her. Just because she knows it doesn't mean it can't remain my secret.

I nod.

Theodore joins us. We all sit at a table. We talk about classes. It's suffocating.

It's so commonplace, so normal. Like we're all friends. Like friends.

I think he can tell how weird it is, too, to have friends plural. So he excuses himself.

"Have a bit of Transfig," he says. I didn't sign up for this, he means. You aren't my friend if you're not cynical, he means. So he excuses himself.

"I see what you mean now." Her voice is soft, quiet, careful. Gentle.

"See what?" Mine is sharp. I mean for it to be.

"I see why you didn't want to."

"Want to what?"

Want to go out with her, she means. With a girl, she means.

It's Theo, she means.

I stare at the wall behind her. I feel betrayed. How can she just say it like that, with her eyes. Like it's trivial, means nothing. Like blood and family and gender mean nothing. They don't, of course. But it bites me that she knows, that she gets that. It's painful to be understood, it's intrusive.

You feel like a child, so simple and easily understood by adults. Stop understanding me. Stop making me a child. Stop making me simple. I don't want to be simple because they're all simple, if I'm simple then I'm like the rest of them, and they're awful, awful, shallow and mean and stupid and silly and novel and useless and absolute accessories to the landscape.

Don't make me a child, Astoria.

"It's like you're a child, actually."

I look away from the wall and into her eyes. Legilimens?

"No, I mean it. Not a child-child, Blaise, but... You need someone to take care of you. You need to be taken care of. That's what I noticed about you, at first, I mean. You tried so much to blend in that you stood out. You hate attention, but you crave it."

I glare at her. She's unfazed.

"Look, I know you don't really know me. You probably hate me, by now. You don't even want to be friends with me, I can tell. But tell me I'm wrong. Tell me you don't need someone to care for you."

"You're wrong, I don't need someone to care for me. You're wrong on two accounts."

"Two?"

"I don't care if you're my friend. I clearly don't have to put any effort in, so what's the loss?"

This surprises her. She knew she was risking things before, telling me about myself, telling me things I hated and knew. She knew that as I glared at her I wasn't really mad. She knew I could act. So she kept going.

"He needs you, too, though."

He does not. I almost shake my head. He doesn't need anyone, anything. Like an owl in a cage he is beauty in isolation.

"Really, he does. It's the same as you, but reversed. You need someone to care for you, he needs someone to care for. It's like something happened to both of you and neither of you say it. The same thing, except different."

His mother is dead but alive to him, mine is alive but dead to me. It's obvious. It's stupid. It doesn't affect people that much.

"He doesn't need me," I say.

"He does."

"He needs a pet."

She smiles at me. I hate it. "You are his pet. Can't you see it?"

"No." Yes.

Even if I'm the dark one, the powerful one, the one people are afraid of, it's him. He's my keeper, he makes the decisions.

"I think you can."

I feel something inside me plummet. Plummet low and plummet hard. Now everything inside of me hurts, now the edges of my eyes prick. Because I can see it.

But do I see it because I want to or because it's there. Do I see it because I'm weak.

I am weak.

Layers and layers of robes, a table between us, but I feel so exposed. The feeling of falling churns within me and I decide to fall with it, to expose myself further.

I use a tone I never use, the tone of a child.

"He doesn't love me, Astoria."

"Ask him."

"He doesn't."

"I promise he does. He doesn't know you do, though. You need to ask him, to tell him."

"He'll reject me. He'll hate me, and I..." I can't lose him. Not him.

I hate it, needing someone. I want to be independent, to be adult. But she's right, she's entirely right. I am a child, a bitter child who wants and needs and cannot ask and cannot tell.

"He'll hate you if you don't, Blaise."

I shake my head. I'm tired of my voice's hoarse betrayal.

"Did you see how he left? He hated seeing us together. He can see that I'm drawn to you, to your brokenness, and he imagined that he saw something in you, too. It hurt him, Blaise. If you don't tell him, you're cruel. A coward."

At this I stood up. "Good day, Astoria."

"Blaise-wait!" I didn't.

She thinks I got mad at her and took off. She thinks she crossed the line. She did, but that wasn't it.

I am a coward, I am a coward, I am a coward.

I am a coward but I will not let them hurt you.

I am a coward but I will not hurt you, Theo. I will never hurt you, Theo.

I am a coward but I will be brave for you.


	11. His Old Photographs

** His Old Photographs**

"Theo, don't let your galleons jingle like that, you're going to get yourself killed."

He is used to my scolding. Too used to it not to be bothered by it. I see the look pass his face again, dismissive. He swings his leather pouch around in the air to tease me, but the smile doesn't rest long on his face after I've taken his hand in mine and forced the pouch back into his robes.

Every time I touch him I'm afraid he'll hit me. I'm afraid he should hit me. It doesn't matter if I'm doing the right thing, every time I touch him it's selfish of me. It's like I drain joy from his skin in the form of small fireworks. He must have realized it by now, he must know.

"Blaise, you _always_ say I'm going to get myself killed. Yet somehow, I'm here alive and well."

"Perhaps if I didn't say it, you wouldn't be."

He rolls his eyes at me. We keep walking. We can't hold hands here so I clench my fist in my pocket. Can't hold hands.

"Blaise," he said after a few more paces, "Do you believe in an afterlife?"

"No."

"I do. Why don't you?"

I don't believe in the afterlife because I'm not an idiot. I'm not so stupid as to alleviate the realness of every action taken on earth by imagining some sort of justice machine in the sky. Just because bad people deserve to be punished doesn't mean they will. They die and they get off the hook. Or else they are punished because their life, their relationships, their success is shallow. Either way there is no Hell, no re-birth as a lowly fungus, no tribunal of the undead counting up your wrongdoings. There is life, and death is the end of it.

People who believe in an afterlife are people who don't have enough power so they invent something big and soothing and on their side. They can't see a relative again—so they imagine that they will. They can't prevent a disaster or increase their luck, so they imagine they can if they just wish for it enough. Their religion is their father or their genie and either way it is a selfish vehicle of delusion for those not courageous enough to accept that life, human life, is all-encompassing, and that death is simply the bookend to the universe, not another chapter.

If people put as much energy into helping other people who are actually alive as they did building monuments and reciting prayers for the dead, then maybe suffering could take a dip for once. But people are selfish and stupid and hopeful and social instead of pragmatic and calculating and lonely. Idiots, the lot of them.

"I don't because I guess I just haven't given it any thought before."

Theodore laughed and I felt it in my chest.

"You're a dreadful liar. As many funerals you've attended and you haven't given it thought? You're full of shit."

"Yeah, maybe I am."

I smile and follow him into Flourish and Blotts and watch as he looks through the newest Arithmancy books and I think of the woman with dark hair and warm eyes and cold hands in all his old photographs.


End file.
